


a game of revolution.

by shariling



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, M/M, eventually, not just yet i'm sorry sob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shariling/pseuds/shariling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actually, no, that’s not correct. Enjolras loathes his house and the seat he takes, disgust churns in his belly when he thinks of the lower classmen his family walks over the backs of—while he eats his fill, the children and women beg for crumbs in the lower town. He hates the poverty that plagues the townsfolk—hates that, while Cersei dresses herself in fine silks and embroideries, while Jaime dons intricate metal pieces in a cruel joke of armor, while Tyrion whores and drinks his days away, the less fortunate grown skinny and small, weaker as days grow longer, and yet still bend the knee to both Tywin and Robert.</p><p>Most of all, however, Enjolras hates that he’s one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_A Lannister repays his debts_ is probably the only thing Enjolras ever actually learned from his father, in all twenty years of his life. Leave no debt unpaid, let weakness not become a part of yourself, pay off the people who aid you and be done with it. Of course, he and Tywin have separate thoughts on what _payment_ qualifies as—Tywin stuffs his pockets of gold, Enjolras with wisdom and enlightenment—but thus has always been a sour note between the boy and his father, and the boy and his older siblings. Greed becomes the House Lannister as it always has, wanting for more, reaching ever higher, roaring ever _louder_ , while Enjolras takes pleasure in where he’s at.

Actually, no, that’s not correct. Enjolras loathes his house and the seat he takes, disgust churns in his belly when he thinks of the lower classmen his family walks over the backs of—while he eats his fill, the children and women beg for crumbs in the lower town. He hates the poverty that plagues the townsfolk—hates that, while Cersei dresses herself in fine silks and embroideries, while Jaime dons intricate metal pieces in a cruel joke of _armor_ , while Tyrion whores and drinks his days away, the less fortunate grown skinny and small, weaker as days grow longer, and yet _still_ bend the knee to both Tywin and Robert.

Most of all, however, Enjolras hates that he’s one of them. 

The wealthy—the rich, those graced with good fortune and a lucky name—they have a responsibility to care for the people who enrich their land. The people who plow farmland, who meld steel to swords the King uses in his army, who pluck grapes from vines and squash them to wine. These are the true rulers of the land, and Enjolras feels indebted to them—a debt that, unfortunately, he doesn’t know how to repay. He gives what money he can, a gold coin to feed for a month here or there, but it’s not enough. Just surviving will never fulfill the debt the Lannisters have grown.

Because it’s not just a debt. It’s revenge the people crave—Enjolras knows this to be true, he’s seen the looks he gets when he rides to the lower town, the scornful wads of spit thrown at his horse’s hooves in rebellion. A small rebellion to be sure, and the men and women turn their heads away as if expecting the sharp slap of Enjolras’ palm, or the order of _cut off their head_ , because of that mild defiance.

No. The people crave revolution, and require confidence.

And Enjolras will bring it to them.

-

The eve of Enjolras’ twentieth nameday brings him to his father’s chambers—knocking once out of respect, and a moment later, once out of impatience.

“Yes, come in.”

Enjolras walks with purpose into his father’s room, ignoring the guards as he’s prone to do—going so far as to shoo them off with a wave of his hand. That motion perks Tywin’s interest, and his gaze flickers only momentarily from the letter he was writing to his youngest son, and back to the letter where he starts writing again. Rather passive aggressively, Enjolras thinks.

The room isn’t much of anything compared to some others in the Red Keep, but it’s plenty next to some of the huts in the winding streets of Kingslanding. It’s larger than what’s necessary for a twice widowed man—his first wife who bore him Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion, and was subsequently killed by the latter, and his second wife who gave him Enjolras, who was taken in illness. A man who has only learned to live with a scowl on his face—a man of many sorrows, but to pity him would be to have your tongue cut out in the blink of an eye. He drowns sadness in the thrill of power, he is a _strong_ man despite his age, and he wears battle wounds as marks of honor, he holds House Lannister up on the base of his back. To meet his fury means to meet certain death.

And Enjolras loathes him.

“Father.”

“Enjolras.”

The entire lack of interest he expresses in whatever Enjolras has to say causes the son to huff, arms crossed over his chest while he glares at the man who gave him life, and who gives him _reason_ —not in the way a father should. While other sons dream of reliving their father’s legacy, of making their name proud and strong and true, Enjolras only dreams of tearing their house up from the ground, of giving the throne to someone more worthy—less greedy. Someone who would be there for the _people_ who built this nation.

Silence befalls them. Tywin has all the time in the world, while Enjolras has a short fuse of patience, almost at its end.

He huffs again, dropping his stance.

“Father, look at me.”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” he says, in that tone that says he’s dealing with an overdramatic teenager—his shoulders weary from age and exhaustion, but his gaze a fierce shade of blue. “Be out with it, or leave me. I haven’t the time for your trials.”

Enjolras’ gaze is just as piercing, just as blue, if not more lively in his young age. He craves the burn in his throat at _yelling_ towards his father, demanding to be taken seriously if for none other moment than this one.

“You’ll make time,” he says, after a few therapeutic breaths to reel in his anger, plump and angelic lips set in a firm line while his jaw clenches. Tywin is not one to falter under such a weak blow to his ego, if one can even call it that, and continues scribbling away on his parchment, thoroughly uninterested in his youngest’s presumed problems.

Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“I am renouncing my title. I tell you in advance out of respect, but I will make it known tomorrow in court.”

This, at the very least, has Tywin halt in his feverish writing. The quill he gripped is set down, letting a drop of ink seep into the wooden desk it lays on. Slowly, he leans back in his over-adorned chair, elbows resting on the carved, wooden armrests, fingers linking with each other at the rise of his stomach.

And he _laughs_ , the absolute bastard.

Tywin does not laugh in humor ever, and when the sound leaves his throat it’s a cruel noise—patronizing, even if it is with amusement. It’s utterly careless, again, as though he were listening to a babe speak childish words of adolescence. It’s cut short, but the humor is still written on his face, the obvious _are you serious—no, no I know you are which makes it better_ still lingering in the crinkle of his eyes.

“No you aren’t,” he says, resolutely. Enjolras eyes bore holes to his father, wishing nothing more than that he had a gaze that could kill-because he would kill his father slowly, would make him suffer for this.

“Yes, fa—”

“No,” he says again, this time more forcefully. The humor is lost face his face, and instead it grows threatening with devilish intent. “I will not allow you to insult our family name in such a way.”

“ _Your_ , family name. Not mine,” Enjolras corrects.

“You are a Lannister, boy, whether you want it or not.” And Tywin rolls his eyes, because while Enjolras thinks himself as the least greedy of all his family, Tywin sees him as the most selfish of them all. “I will do you an aid and forget this, but it will be the last I hear of it.”

“You _cannot_ ,” Enjolras says, eyes wild now, hands balled into fists at his sides. His shoulders hunch forward as if on the attack, ready to leap at any moment. “You _cannot_ oppress me in such a way. I want nothing to do with your—your _army_ of children, nor do I believe in the traits you’ve instilled in me since I was a boy. I will leave, and you cannot stop me, you _will_ not.”

Tywin rises from his spot, padding over to Enjolras, and grabs a fistful of his collar, still towering over the younger man with impressive height. Enjolras wraps a hand tightly around his wrist, but make no attempts at shoving him off. The physicality is not what’s important—it’s the intensity, the unwavering look reflected in each of their eyes. Defying, defiance, threatening.

“You mistake me,” Tywin says, his breath harsh and cold against Enjolras’ jaw. “You still are a boy. And though you may be a disappointment, you are a _Lannister_ , and my _son_ at that. I have no qualms with using harsher means to restrain you. Guards!”

Enjolras struggles then—because no, he’s not _finished_ with this, but the guards come in automatically, as they’re trained to do, and Enjolras is met with the handsome face of his smug older brother, grinning all knowingly at him. Tywin drops his hold and moves back to his desk, as if nothing had gone on between them.

“Escort him to his room. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Jaime drops a hand to Enjolras’s shoulder, and Enjolras shoves him off, shaking his head. Walking towards the door, two guards in tow, he glances to his father over his shoulder, breathing steadily.

“You cannot stop me,” he repeats. 

Tywin grins—the cruel, godless smirk that would strike fear into any ordinary man. 

Enjolras is no ordinary man. And he is not afraid.

“Watch me,” he promises, before Enjolras gets led out, down the corridor to his room.


	2. Chapter 2

The weeks to come are torturous as far as Enjolras is concerned—under constant supervision by his father’s orders, which go unquestioned in the mind of Robert. Perhaps if he liked the boy more, he might have brought some complaint up with the father Lannister—but truth be told, Enjolras is nearly _impossible_ to get along with, especially with Robert.

Because Robert is the epitome of what a King should _not_ be, and no, he’s not going to act like a flower if only to reign in his father’s punishment. He has more pride, and he’s stubborn.

There are always two Kingsguard members at his side wherever he may go. More often than not, Jaime takes pleasure in teasing his little brother, getting scolded as if he were a kicked _dog_ , which in turn infuriates Enjolras even more, but his brother has always been an ass. He’s used to the teasing, and Jaime isn’t especially good at it. They’re close in the way that Enjolras is distant from all his siblings and only _minutely_ better with Jaime—but there’s a mutual distrust between them. They only tolerate each other, and just barely at that.

He couldn’t care less about Cersei, honestly. In a sisterly way, there’s nothing much there—they speak only on formal occasions, ignoring the other’s presence at any other point. Enjolras half thinks he’s loathed because he comes from a separate mother—but that’s neither here nor there. If Cersei hates him, it’s no skin off his teeth.

Tyrion is more complicated, in the simple way that Enjolras _knows_ he’s an intelligent man, but he’s insufferable with the drink burned on his mouth, lips eternally dyed a wine-red color. He’s a good man but cynical—too often do he and Enjolras butt heads, too often does Tyrion know all the _wrong_ ways to get on his nerves. Simply put, they’re much too different to get along. Enjolras’ mother must have been a dreamer.

He certainly is, and despite the way his father suffocates him with watches and guards, there are still thoughts swirling dearly around his mind. Escaping plans—if he can’t do it the proper way, he _will_ get it done through more unconventional means. It will be done, because he said so. Because he will put his heart to it, and it will be done.

Perhaps his prudishness is another trait he shares with his house.

Despite being rather hard to get along with, he _does_ have friends in court—two, predominately, though there’s only one he trusts with his entire and full heart. Combeferre Baratheon, the youngest brother to the King himself—otherwise known as the only person capable of having a word with Enjolras without it devolving into a ferocious throw words, back and forth.

The thankful thing about their relationship is that they don’t actually _need_ those words to communicate. A few strategically placed hugs in the center of halls, a few notes tucked into pockets and waistbands with idle passings, and their plan is set. They must wait a bit, which puts Enjolras at unease, but Combeferre writes that it will be worth the wait, rather than trying something drastic and risking what little freedom Enjolras has.

And Enjolras believes him, damn him. The only one who can convince Enjolras anything.

On a particular evening, Enjolras and Combeferre cross paths—Combeferre nods to each of his guards before embracing his friend, patting him soundly on the back.

“Combeferre.”

“Enjolras.”

Later that night, the Lannister finds a scribble on a torn piece of paper tucked in between the leather of his belt. ‘ _Tomorrow night_ ’, it reads. Enjolras prepares.

-

There’s a feast planned for a caravan to leave from Winterfell—a royal carriage prepared, and a fine dinner in store for the seemingly expected way they all will grow homesick when traveling North. Jaime, on this rare occasion, has left Enjolras’ side to stand at the King’s—and, subsequently, the _Queen’s_ —side whilst the feast starts. Enjolras’ nephews and niece are all in the dining hall, listening to Robert go on about this fight of old or the next, and Joffrey rolls his eyes while Myrcella and Tommen nod politely, hiding their yawns behind small hands.

Tyrion, Cersei, Tywin, they’re all there. Renly and Petyr and Varys and Combeferre—they’re all in the hall having a mainly feigned grand time. The only one, it seems, who isn’t there, is Enjolras.

Because he is running fashionably late, using this reason or the next to further stall being escorted to the feast. The Kingsguard members know better than to question Enjolras—but it’s clear after the first while that they’re getting uneasy, antsy, wanting to do their duty, but not get in trouble with people higher up.

He waits until fifteen minutes past the hour—that’s what he and Combeferre had agreed on, and they are nothing if not _meticulous_ , focused on even the smallest details to their plans. Timing is everything, as they say. Without further ado, Enjolras declares himself ready and watches as the shoulders of his guards relax and shrug thankfully. Without second thought, the three of them set off down the hall, a set of polished boots and two sets of dirty ones rasping on the cobblestone floors of the castle.

It’s only when they reach a subtle and secret passage built by Mageor the Cruel, that anything out of the ordinary happens—smoke, from a nearby turn in the hall comes pouring out, in the path they’d need to take to get to the Great Hall. All three of them stop in their tracks, the guards gripping the hilts of their swords threateningly. 

“What’s all this?” Enjolras asks, ever the actor. “It’s coming from the Great Hall.”

The guard share looks while the smoke thickens. They look back to Enjolras after a moment of silent debating, nodding at him soundly.

“Stay right here, my Lord,” one of them says. “It could be dangerous.”

Enjolras grins internally, but his facial expression stays serious, worried.

The knights disappear to the fog, and Enjolras spin back on his heels.

The maker of such a distraction—a servant boy named Courfeyrac—steps out bashfully from behind a wooden door, grinning brightly. He’s in worn clothes, far from the rags usual commoners wear, but also far from the intricate embellishments and laces on Enjolras’s overcoat. Enjolras reflects the smiling look, crossing over to pat him on the shoulder.

“Excellent work, Courfeyrac.”

“Of course! It was a pleasure to serve you, naturally.”

Enjolras smiles for a second longer before his expression falls into something more serious, and he looks around quickly, suddenly under the effect that there _isn’t enough time_ for all of this.

“You’ll tell Combeferre,” he starts, trying to figure out _what_ exactly he wants to say. “You’ll tell him this is not goodbye, yes? For any of the three of us. I will return for the both of you.”

Courfeyrac nods his head, setting his own hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. Which should—it should _offend_ the higher born, but it doesn’t, his look only softens and he bobs his head.

“Of course, my Lord.”

“My _friend_ ,” Enjolras corrects, squeezing his shoulder and stepping back. “The next time we meet, you’ll call me Enjolras.”

And he is gone, escaping down the secret passage.

-

As always, Combeferre is genius in plans, and it goes by without flaw. Enjolras finds a set of clothes hidden away for him—more rugged, less _high born_ , because he isn’t anymore. If he’s not permitted to relinquish his title the proper way, then he’ll go about it through less conventional methods and, quite literally, disappear in thin air. The Lannister inside him has died, though it had long ago, but now he can _officially_ say that he’s cut ties from his family. All bridges have been burned.

And so, the meaning of his life can begin, as it were.

The only problem with their plan is, while under any ordinary circumstance Enjolras would head north to Riverrun, he can’t _now_ as that’s the path the King and the other royals are planning to take to Winterfell. Instead, he’s forced to head west to Casterly Rock—the Lannister’s hometown, though he’s never actually been there. He has, presumably, until nightfall to find some cover and pray to escape whatever search party Robert will send for him—assuming that he sends one at all.

If he did, it was naturally unsuccessful, and Enjolras begins at the break of dawn on his journey to Casterly Rock. He wears a hooded cape across his back, lion symbol ripped from its shoulder, to hide his obviously Lannister curls as he sets off on foot. He manages, surprisingly, to keep his head down through his journey—he can’t use main roads so he travels through dangerous forests, usually buying off the bandits he faces with a handful of coins he’d stolen from his father.

Other times, force is needed, but most people aren’t a match for Enjolras.

Altogether, the walk to Casterly Rock goes by smoothly. Enjolras stops at little towns along the way and charms people into giving him food and shelter—offering bare amounts of money to not draw attention to himself. Not yet, he chants in his head. He needs to wipe himself off the map before he can start his revolution.

Yes, things go by smoothly. If not for just _one_ small miscalculation—and that is, of course, that Enjolras is a shit navigator.

Instead of Casterly Rock, he finds himself at The Crag—instead of high walls and rich architecture, he’s met with mud stones and slavery. Enjolras detests what he sees—moreover, he hates that there’s nothing he can _do_ about it, not now, not when he doesn’t even have a name for himself. He’s no one, not yet. He turns a blind eye and finds an alleyway to sleep in for the night, though rest never becomes him. He’s too scornful to dream with his eyes closed.

He does start drifting eventually, if only slightly. Heavy eyelids flutter shut and Enjolras _tries_ not to think about what he’ll do next, tries only to chase after a good night’s sleep which he knows he’ll never achieve. His head is too used to feather pillows and fur blankets—the stone wall and cool sea breeze only make him uneasy.

A commotion on the main streets stirs him completely into wakefulness—and Enjolras is quickly up on his feet, heading out to see what the uproar is all about. He hears screams, women’s, and the loud slap of feet running across dirt roads, trying to get away from—

Enjolras catches a woman’s arm, looking her in the eye.

“What’s all this about?”

“The—it’s the Greyjoys! They’re looking for the lost Lannister boy—you’d best be off, miss, you know what they’ll do to you.”

Enjolras is no miss, but he gets the implication well enough, letting the woman go—another miscalculation. Of course people would be looking for him for awhile, but he had imagined his father would have kept this shame quiet, not letting the gossip spread through the Kingdom.

But he was wrong. And now he has to evade an entire army of Greyjoys, knocking uncaringly at each and every door, pillaging, raping probably, all people who get in their way.

Quickly, Enjolras heads back down his alley, assuming _this_ to be safest—that he’ll be able to just wait the worst of it out, that the army will pass him by without another thought. He pretends he’s dead, slumped on the floor, cloak held tightly around his neck so no golden curls can be seen.

He closes his eyes and dreams of something better—no, not better but something _different_ , of the dream he wants to create, of how one day he and all his fellow citizens of the world won’t have to live in fear of any other man. He thinks optimistic thoughts, in order to shoo away the _it might be over now, before it’s begun_ thoughts

It’s going well, he thinks, before someone kicks him, and he curses. Loudly.

“Ah, the dead body lives! Come on, then. Look at me.”

Enjolras keeps his gaze downcast—begging not to be seen, because there’s no way anyone would mistake his features for anything short of _Lannister_. His invader seems impatient and crouches down, and hand grabbing his chin—this is it, this is _it_ —and forcing Enjolras’ chin up to look at him.

Eye contact.

“Shit,” the other man says. He smells of saltwater, hands cold where they touch Enjolras’ chin and hold him there. His chin is stubbly with facial hair that grows unmaintained—and his breath smells like wine where it hits Enjolras on the face, like a slap of _boorishness_. Enjolras looks up fiercely, defiantly, because he’s never one to back down from even the smallest of challenges.

This man will have to die, he thinks, and silently says a prayer for his soul.

“Shit,” the man repeats, gazing Enjolras up and down before releasing him— _releasing_ him. He looks taken aback, as Enjolras is sure he looks as well, but for entirely different reasons. A smile spreads across the Greyjoy’s lips, and he laughs something humorless and yet entirely _different_ from Tywin’s, moving a hand to brush wild and curly hair from his forehead.

“I thought I was looking for a baby lion—not an _angel_. Gods.”

Enjolras huffs indignantly, hands moving up to pull his hood down and reveal all his features to the other man—who seems to drink it up, eyes glassy and amazed, in a way he hardly seems to care about.

“Go on, then. Don’t be dramatic. Cut my head and send it to Balon with a bow—you’ll hardly see me flinch.”

“What?”

The Greyjoy looks confused by this proclamation—before he seemingly remembers something, and his facial expression falls, almost innocently. He stands, and Enjolras watches, bracing himself for the blow—but it never lands. There’s never any blow. The strange man only stands and pulls Enjolras up after him, pressing the Lannister up against a mud wall, crowding Enjorlas’ body entirely with his much larger frame.

“Listen well, little lion,” he says, in a husky tone, and for a minute Enjolras thinks they might _kiss_ , but the older man just grits his teeth, again pressing his hand to Enjolras’ chin, despite his gaze not flickering away in the slightest. “Enjolras Lannister is dead—I’m going to kill him. And I’m going to bring his head to Balon.”

Enjolras swallows—he follows, as well as he’s confused.

“But you—” he spares a glance down at Enjolras’ body, raking him without shame. “—you are not going to die. I’m going to kill some blonde boy who might pass as Lannister.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, but the Greyjoy quickly presses his hand to it, silencing him.

“Ah-ah, naughty lion. You don’t get a choice.” He seems smug about that. “I can’t kill such a beauty, it wouldn’t sit right. _You_ , pretty boy, are going to become my ward. Much preferable to death, isn’t it? You might not think so.”

Enjolras thinks he sounds self-deprecating, and he wants to roll his eyes.

“Yes, there’s what will happen,” he nods, pulling off of Enjolras, tugging his hood up at the same time. “It goes without saying, but if you mention who you are to anyone, they’ll have to killed. Less mercifully than I would do it, might I add.”

Enjolras knits his eyebrows, defiantly glaring at his apparent captor, while he mulls it over in his mind. Of course, the fear of death is not what forces him to consider it—but rather, the promise of a new life where he isn’t a Lannister, but a servant boy, as he remembers Courfeyrac to be.

It would be a step closer to his revolution. 

He considers it, and the Greyjoy waits, clearly impatient but also hopeful—Enjolras thinks he really _doesn’t_ want to kill him, which makes him weak. Pitiful, to lust after a pretty face. An advantage for Enjolras yo use.

“What’s your name?” Enjolras asks. The other man grins wolfishly, eyes ablaze.

“Grantaire.”

“Fine, then, Grantaire. I accept these conditions.”

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoy :)
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://enjolrased.tumblr.com/)!


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